Free Orphan #8 by Kim van Alkemade Page B

anymore, but me as I am now. I am alone. No Mildred Solomon. No Papa. There is a shining moment of relief as I laugh and feel the ocean spray on my face. I urge the horse to gallop faster. In my dream I ride with confidence and abandon, though in reality I’ve only ever awkwardly balanced on a rented mare on the bridal path in Central Park. Looking down, I see my hands are tightly grasping the mane of the horse. I look more closely. Not grasping, no. They are held in place with horsehair, the mane threaded through the skin of my hands. Horrified, I try to pull my hands away, but the horse misinterprets my gesture and veers toward the sea. It gallops into the waves until the water is up to my waist, its flaring nostrils straining for air. The surf roars in my ears as the water covers the horse’s head and rises to my chin.
    I woke with a strangled scream, bolting up in bed, my heart thudding against my ribs. I rubbed my hands together, fingers sliding over the smooth, unbroken skin. With no one to distract or comfort me, I obsessed over the dream, unable to make sense of its horrible images. I glanced at the clock—it was nearly five. I knew I’d never be able to fall back to sleep, so I got out of bed, put up a pot of coffee, took a quick shower while it was perking.
    Out on the balcony, the coffee uncomfortably hot in my hands, I watched the bright glow of the sun rising up over the ocean. I wished I was on the beach, my bare feet on the freshly raked sand,my view of the horizon unobstructed by apartment buildings and roller coaster tracks. As its rays lit up my skin, I felt the sun’s heat. It was amazing to think of its energy traveling millions of miles to finally touch me. It made me think about that Japanese fisherman, the one who died from the radioactive fallout of the hydrogen bomb even though his boat was eighty miles from the test site. It had been upsetting to read about such a terrible weapon that could kill from so far away. The newspapers said not to worry, that Eisenhower would never let things escalate to the point of using the H-bomb, but I hadn’t been able to shake the idea of a detonation powerful enough to wipe out all of Manhattan.
    I supposed it was the bad dream that had turned my thoughts so morbid. Anyway, I was starting to sweat, so I retreated inside. Even after I’d gotten dressed and tended to my hair, I still had an hour to kill before I could leave for the Medical Academy. I didn’t want to sit like an old lady watching the clock, so I gathered up my stale clothes from the hamper and headed to the laundry room. At least the basement would be cool.
    I had just started the washing machine when Molly Lippman came in, lugging a wicker basket in her fleshy arms. “Oh, Rachel! I wondered who else was up at this hour.” She was in her housedress, its garish flowers clashing with the pink curlers in her dyed hair. “I suppose once you’re in the habit of waking up early for work, it’s no good sleeping in.” She loaded the other machine and got it started. I hoped she would leave—most us of went back to our apartments during the long wash cycles—but no, she settled down on a folding chair and fanned herself with a magazine someone left lying around. “It is your day off, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, but how do you—”
    “I saw you coming in last night. I was too slow to catch the elevator, though.”
    “Oh, yes, I’m sorry about—”
    “So, what are you doing today? Going to the beach with the rest of New York?”
    “No, I have something to do in Manhattan. In fact, I should pop upstairs to—”
    “Let me tell you, Rachel dear, I wouldn’t have minded sleeping in myself this morning, but who can catch a wink in this heat? It gives me interesting dreams, though, or maybe sleeping badly just helps me remember them.”
    “That’s funny, the same thing happened to me.” As soon as I saw the eager expression on her face, I wished I could take back my words.
    “Oh, why don’t